


In From the Cold

by cybel



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fade to Black, First Time, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-12-30 06:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18309860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybel/pseuds/cybel
Summary: Illya has uncharacteristically taken time off from work while Napoleon is out of the country, and Napoleon wants to know why. When he finds his partner and the answer to his question, everything changes between them.





	In From the Cold

**Author's Note:**

> The original version of this story was printed in the multi-fandom slash fanzine _Dyad 2_ (1989), published by Mkashef Enterprises and edited by Dovya Blacque. The zine's Fanlore page can be found [here](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Dyad). It was also re-printed in _Reclassified Affairs 2_ (2002), a slash anthology of Man from U.N.C.L.E. fiction previously published in multi-fandom zines. This zine was published by Markate Press and edited by Marion McChesney, and its Fanlore page can be found [here](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Reclassified_Affairs). Please note that there are mildly NSFW images on this Fanlore page.

Napoleon bent over the pretty receptionist, smiling down at her as she pinned his badge to his lapel. "Thank you, Marsha," he said. He glanced down at the remaining yellow triangles lying in rows on her desk, and his smile faded. "I see you still have Mr. Kuryakin's badge," he said. "Hasn't he come in yet this morning?"

"No, Mr. Solo," she answered. "In fact, as I recall he hasn't been in all week. Let's see..." she quickly checked through a thick computer readout, running a long, painted nail down the rows of entries until she found what she was looking for. "According to the log, he called Mr. Waverly's office on Monday, but I was right, he hasn't been in. Apparently that was his last contact." Marsha looked up at Napoleon invitingly, leaning forward just enough to offer him an unobstructed view of her ample cleavage. When he didn't respond, she sat back with a small sigh and said, "Maybe he's out on assignment."

Napoleon smiled again, but this time it didn't reach his eyes, which instead narrowed thoughtfully. "Yes, that must be it." Turning away, he barely noticed as the automatic door behind Marsha's desk whooshed open, allowing him to enter the main access corridor of M.U.N.C.L.E.'s Central Headquarters. Despite what he had just said, Napoleon already knew his partner wasn't on assignment. That had been the first thing he had ascertained yesterday when he returned from a routine assignment in West Germany and discovered that Illya was not in the building.

At first Napoleon had shrugged the matter off, thinking little of it, but when he'd asked around after his debriefing and no one seemed to know anything about his partner's whereabouts, he'd begun to feel vaguely uneasy, and when he'd been unable to reach Illya by phone or communicator, uneasier still. Nevertheless, Napoleon had reasoned, Illya was perfectly capable of taking care of himself and certainly deserved some time off if he wanted it. Convinced that he would undoubtedly show up at HQ the next morning with a perfectly good reason for his absence, Napoleon had gone home and fallen into a deep, jet-lagged sleep. But now...

Where the hell was he? Illya never, but never, took personal time. After working with him for almost three years, Napoleon was convinced that Illya didn't even have a personal life. Indeed, it seemed that U.N.C.L.E. was Illya's life. And why not? Hadn't the Russian given up everything—home, family, and friends—when he had pledged himself to U.N.C.L.E. all those years ago? Illya never spoke about his past, not even to Napoleon.

No, U.N.C.L.E. was Illya's home now. Illya spent more of his off duty time at HQ than he spent at his own apartment or anywhere else, more time than any other person with the possible exception of Mr. Waverly himself. That was why Napoleon felt so apprehensive about his current absence. 

Perhaps Illya had the flu that was going around and just didn't feel like answering calls. Napoleon huffed softly to himself. Unthinkable. Illya never took sick time. In fact, more than once Napoleon had seen him drag his abused body into HQ too soon after he had been injured on a mission rather than take time off to recover fully. 

_Well_ , he thought, tired of speculating in a vacuum, _there's only one way to find out for sure what Illya's up to_. He headed toward Waverly's office. The Old Man would know. The Old Man knew everything.

 

Waverly looked up from his videophone as Napoleon entered his office, motioning his second in command to sit before turning his attention back to the screen in front of him. "Yes, Mr. Prime Minister," he said into the phone, "you have my personal guarantee of the full backing of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. If you receive any further threats from THRUSH, just let us know and we will send a team to investigate and intervene if necessary." Waverly listened for a moment then nodded. "You’re quite welcome, Mr. Prime Minister. Goodbye." He hung up the receiver and looked across his desk at Napoleon."Yes, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "What can I do for you?" 

"Nothing, Sir. I just stopped by to check in with you." 

"Come, come." Waverly dismissed Napoleon's disavowal with a wave of his hand. "You might as well get to the point. No sense in wasting your time, or mine. You've heard that Mr. Kuryakin hasn't been in all week, and you want to know why." 

"Um, as a matter of fact, yes," Napoleon agreed. He wondered, not for the first time, at Waverly's seemingly uncanny ability to read minds. He settled back in his chair, hoping to convey only polite curiosity rather than the growing unease that was gnawing at him. 

Waverly looked at him acutely from under his bushy eyebrows and seemed to come to a decision. "Mr. Kuryakin called in on Monday and asked for a few days off," he said. "He gave no reason, but since there are no pressing matters that require his attention at present, and since he has several weeks of accumulated leave he has never before seen fit to take, I saw no reason not to agree to his request." 

The old man reached into his pocket for his pipe and tobacco, the commonplace activity not quite masking the concern his next words betrayed. "Tell me, Mr. Solo, do you have reason to believe that Mr. Kuryakin's call might have been made under some form of duress?" 

"No, Sir,“ Napoleon answered carefully, unable to explain even to himself the alarm bells that kept jangling in the back of his mind. "It just seems odd, that's all. Out of character." He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "When you spoke to him, did he sound all right to you?" 

Waverly shrugged. "Mr. Kuryakin is an intensely private individual, as I'm sure you are aware. If anything of a personal nature were bothering him, I'm certain that I would not be the one in whom he would confide. Still, his request was, as you say, odd, so I took the liberty of instituting a routine check on his coordinates. Assuming he still has his communicator with him, and I have no reason to believe otherwise, he hasn't left his apartment since he called me." 

His next words might have been taken as a change of subject by anyone less astute than Napoleon. "You've been looking a bit tired lately, Mr. Solo. Perhaps this would be a good time for you to take a few days off as well. THRUSH has been uncommonly quiet lately, so I'm sure we will be able to muddle along without you for a while." 

Napoleon nodded, glancing appraisingly at his superior. "Thank you, Sir," he said slowly. "I do have some personal," he emphasized the last word, "business I should attend to." He hesitated, then added, "I appreciate your concern." 

"I'll be interested to hear how your business turns out," Mr. Waverly said, seemingly intent on filling his pipe. "If you require any assistance..." Their eyes met, a look of complete understanding passing between the two men. 

"Yes, Sir," Napoleon said. "I'll let you know." He turned and left the office, heading quickly back down the corridor toward reception. 

"Leaving already, Mr. Solo?“ Marsha asked as he turned in his badge. 

"Duty calls," he answered evasively as he hurried out the door and left the building via Del Floria's Tailor Shop.

 

Napoleon's fingers beat a distracted tattoo on the steering wheel as he drove through the midmorning traffic toward Illya's old brownstone. Mr. Waverly was clearly as concerned about Illya as he himself was, and apparently with as little actual reason. The Old Man had all but directly ordered him onto a covert mission with Illya as its target! It made no sense. Unless... Unless Waverly knew more than he was letting on. But in that case, why not just tell Napoleon what that reason was? Why the secrecy? It occurred to him that they were both quite possibly just being paranoid, an occupational hazard in the spy business. Illya was taking a few days off. So what if he had not done so in the past? No doubt he had a good reason for doing so now and would not be pleased at Napoleon going to his apartment to check up on him. 

_I hope that's how it turns out_ , Napoleon thought dubiously. _I hope he's shacked up with some girl he met over the weekend, or that he's just decided to take some time off while things are slow, or anything else that means that he's all right, that nothing terrible has happened to him._ Unconvinced by his own arguments, he pressed down on the accelerator pedal, using all of his considerable driving skill to get him to his destination as quickly as possible.

 

Napoleon stood in the hall outside Illya's apartment, sunlight streaming in through the window over his shoulder, and rang the bell for the third time. Still no answer. "Illya," he called at last, "it's me. Open the door." He reached out to rattle the doorknob by way of emphasis and pulled his hand back as though it had been burned when it turned easily in his grip. Not locked? For Illya Kuryakin, secret agent and security expert, not locking his own front door was analogous to the government leaving the vault at Fort Knox open and unguarded. Napoleon felt a sudden chill dissipate the warmth of the day, and the concern he had been feeling for his friend all morning turned into something infinitely more terrifying. 

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Napoleon drew his Walther from his shoulder holster and pushed the door open. The apartment lay in veiled semi-darkness, the blinds closed and the curtains drawn. There was no sound. No movement. Nothing. Bending low, he entered the tiny foyer, not lingering for even a moment in the treacherous backlight of the open doorway as he moved to one side, scanning the small living room. It was empty. 

Still on high alert, Napoleon pulled the door shut behind him and locked it, engaging the security system. Without knowing the access code, no one could now enter or leave the premises without setting off the alarm. Walther still at the ready, Napoleon began a comprehensive sweep of the rest of the apartment. The hall closet was empty, and a more thorough scan of the living room and then the kitchen both revealed nothing. That left the bedroom and its adjacent bathroom.

The door to the bedroom was ajar, and the west-facing room, window covered by heavy curtains, was cloaked in gloom except for a faint ring of light off to one side. Not quite in control of the butterflies in the pit of his stomach, Napoleon rolled forward through the doorway, not stopping until his back was safely flattened against the far wall, next to the open bathroom door. A quick glance inside proved it to be unoccupied. Alert for the faintest sign of danger, he next swung his gun in a wide arc across the bedroom itself.

Rising cautiously, Napoleon looked toward the faint light he had noticed earlier, realizing it emanated from a reading lamp on the small desk in the corner. That's when he saw the figure slumped across the desktop, and the unruly shock of pale hair that shone in the dim lamplight. Illya's head lay cradled on his left arm; his right arm was extended across the desk, his Walther lying loosely in the limp fingers. 

"Illya?" Napoleon asked, not recognizing his own voice for the tremor in it. "Illya?" Good. Steadier that time. Less hesitant. But there was still no answer. 

Napoleon took a step forward only to stop short when he saw the gleam of something wet under Illya's face. One part of his brain cataloged the scene cooly—unmoving form, gun in hand, moisture (blood?) under the head—and arrived at a likely conclusion, but the other half howled a blind rejection of that conclusion and set his frozen limbs in motion again. 

With no memory of moving, Napoleon was suddenly beside Illya, reaching for the Russian's neck, feeling for his carotid pulse. It beat strong and steady against his fingers, and the flesh under his hand was warm. Illya was alive. Napoleon felt lightheaded with relief as he slipped his Walther back into its holster and leaned forward to rest his hands lightly on Illya's shoulders, closing his eyes until his dizziness passed. When he opened them again he was in control, his mind awhirl with questions. "Illya?" he asked one more time, gently shaking his friend. This time Illya mumbled something incoherent and tried to shrug off Napoleon's hands. 

Now that his senses weren't frozen with fear for Illya's immediate safety, it was readily apparent to Napoleon that the Russian was blind drunk, and that the liquid under his face was Vodka that must have spilled from the overturned bottle that now lay at Illya's feet. Anger flared momentarily then died when Napoleon realized it wasn't like Illya to get so drunk he passed out, and it certainly wasn't like him to handle his gun while in such a condition. Yet he had done both of those things and had left his door unlocked as well. Why?. He still didn't even want to consider the most obvious answer. 

Napoleon carefully removed the Walther from Illya's hand and examined it. The gun was fully loaded, and the safety was off. He flipped it back on and opened the top drawer of the desk, setting it inside. As he did, two envelopes tucked inside caught his eye, one addressed to Mr. Waverly, the other to himself. _Well_ , he thought, putting any qualms he might have felt to the back of his mind, _if it's addressed to me, he must want me to read it_. Without further hesitation, Napoleon picked it up. 

The note was short and to the point: "Napoleon, please try to forgive me. I could not have asked for a better partner or a better friend. Do not blame yourself. Illya." Suddenly Napoleon's legs felt too weak to support him. He stumbled around the desk and dropped down heavily on the edge of the bed. For a long time he just sat there with Illya's note wadded up in his tightly clenched fist. Incongruously, he felt betrayed. Illya had meant to kill himself, perhaps still meant to kill himself, leaving Napoleon behind to pick up the pieces. 

He had long lived with the fact that either one of them might die at any moment—in their profession few agents lived to a happy old age—but for Illya to consider suicide... He flung the note away as hard as he could, accidentally knocking over the bedside lamp in the process. The resulting crash brought a moan from Illya, who slowly raised his head. "Who is it?" he mumbled groggily, staring blindly into the darkness. He reached an unsteady hand up to the gooseneck desk lamp and turned it to illuminate the rest of the room. "Who's there?" 

It was Napoleon's turn to not answer. 

"Napoleon?" Illya asked when he was finally able to focus. "What—?" he stopped. He looked down at his empty right hand then back up at Napoleon. 

"It's in the top drawer of your desk if you still want to use it," Napoleon said, his voice tight with suppressed anger and pain. "Go ahead. I won't stop you." 

"Napoleon?" Illya asked again. 

He sounded so lost, so distressed, that Napoleon's anger evaporated. He got up and went to his friend. "It's all right," he said, wrapping his arms around Illya's trembling shoulders. "It'll be all right. I promise." Napoleon wanted more than anything for his words to be true, but he was afraid that they might not be. "Come on," he said at last. "You need some rest."

Illya could barely stand up, but with Napoleon's help he made it to the bed. After tucking him in, Napoleon pulled the chair out from behind the desk and positioned it close by. He sat down heavily and settled in to keep watch over his sleeping friend.

 

Illya slept long into the afternoon, although he didn't sleep peacefully. Rather, he tossed and turned fitfully, now and then crying out in Russian. 

All the while Napoleon watched him numbly, his mind on hold. For the time being it was enough just to be in the same room with Illya, to see his chest rising and falling and to know he was alive. But did he want to live? If not, there was very little Napoleon could do for him in the long run. There were too many ways for men in their profession to die. All Illya had to do was hesitate at the wrong moment; he wouldn't even have to lift a finger to make it happen. 

Uncomfortable with his thoughts, Napoleon stood and stretched, grunting as his cramped muscles protested. He desperately needed some coffee, but he didn't want to leave Illya alone. Still, if he left the bedroom door open and took Illya's Walther with him...

Napoleon walked over to the window and opened the blinds, letting the late afternoon light flood in, dispelling the darkness of the room if not of his thoughts. Strange that it was still light outside, still business as usual as if the world hadn't almost ended for Illya last night. 

_And for me?_ Napoleon wondered. _If I had found him dead when I got here this morning, what would my world have been like now?_ He shivered and turned away from the window. Going to the desk, he took out the Walther and stood looking down at it for a long time before putting it into his pocket. 

"You don't have to do that." Illya's voice startled him. "I'm not going to do anything foolish, as you Americans say." Illya reached up and clasped his head in both hands, squinting in the sunlight. "I don't have to," he added wryly. "The way my head feels, I can't have much longer to live in any event." 

"I'll get you some aspirin," Napoleon said, not amused by Illya's misplaced attempt at humor. He went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, rooting around until he found what he was looking for. Filling a glass with water he took it and several of the pills back to the bedroom. Illya hadn't moved except to close his eyes again. "Here," Napoleon said, nudging his elbow. 

Illya slowly lowered his hands as if afraid his head would explode once he let go of it. Sitting up with a moan he took the water and the aspirin. After he had managed to swallow them down, Napoleon tucked another pillow behind him, and Illya leaned back against the support as if the effort he had just expended had exhausted him. 

"I'm going to make some coffee," Napoleon said. He hesitated, then asked, "Will you be all right?" 

"Yes, yes," Illya snapped. "I won't slit my wrists or throw myself out of the window the minute your back is turned, if that's what you mean." He glared up at Napoleon for a moment then turned his face to the wall. "I'm sorry," he said softly. 

"I know," Napoleon answered and left the room.

 

It took Napoleon a while to find what he needed in the kitchen since he hadn't often been in Illya's apartment and didn't know where things were kept. Finally, however, the scent of freshly brewing coffee filled the air. 

As the coffee perked, Napoleon stood with his hands on the drainboard, head bowed. In his note Illya had called him friend as well as partner. Napoleon agreed. _I am his friend. As far as I know, I'm his _only_ friend, the only one he's ever let close enough to earn that title. But what do I really know about him? He's lived here, in this apartment, for the entire three years I've known him, and yet I could count the number of times I've been here on the fingers of one hand. I don't know what books he reads or what music he listens to, don't know who he turns to when he lonely or even if he gets lonely. And I certainly don't know why he suddenly took a few days off from work and decided to blow his brains out._ Napoleon raised one hand and slapped the surface of the counter as hard as he could before turning and hurrying back to the bedroom. 

The bed was empty, but before panic could set in he heard water running. Giving in to his now familiar paranoia ( _Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean that Illya's really just showering_ ), Napoleon opened the bathroom door and looked into the steam-filled room. Illya stood under the spray of the shower, his slender body clearly outlined behind the translucent curtain. Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief and, without stopping to ask himself why, continued to watch his partner. 

_He looks so deceptively fragile_ , Napoleon thought, _almost delicate. But though he's smaller than I am and probably not quite as strong, he's undeniably more agile and cunning. In a hand to hand encounter, I doubt I could best him. But this isn't a physical battle we're involved in now. This is something much more subtle and difficult to resolve. And the stakes are so high. Too high. His life._ It was not a battle Napoleon was willing to lose. 

Deep in thought, he didn't notice the Russian had turned off the water and thrown back the shower curtain. Illya stood unselfconsciously naked, pushing his streaming hair back off his face. Then he saw Napoleon and froze, his clear blue eyes widening with alarm and some other indefinable emotion that tugged at Napoleon's heart. 

_He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, waiting for it to hit him, knowing it's going to hit him but unable to move out of its way. Why are you afraid of me, Illya? Don't you know that I would never hurt you? Don't you know that I love you?_ That thought brought Napoleon up short, and suddenly he felt as confused and fearful as Illya looked. "Sorry," Napoleon murmured, backing quickly out of the room. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right." He drew the door closed and, crossing the bedroom, kept going until he was back in the kitchen, as far away from Illya as he could get without leaving the apartment altogether. 

Napoleon's blood was pounding loudly in his ears, his heart racing much too fast. He wanted to run, to be alone to think, to figure out what he was feeling and what it meant to himself and to Illya, but he knew he couldn't go while his partner needed his help. He grabbed onto that thought, using it to drag himself out of the emotional morass in which he suddenly found himself in danger of foundering. 

Illya needed his help. That was all that really mattered, wasn't it? Of course it was. This other thing would just have to wait its turn. Napoleon poured two cups of coffee and added cream and sugar to his own, leaving Illya's black the way he liked it. The mundane activity helped to steady him. 

He picked up the cups and turned to take them back to the bedroom, but Illya was there, standing in the kitchen doorway dressed in corduroy slacks and a bulky cable knit sweater. Napoleon let out his breath as soon as he realized he was holding it and stood quietly, waiting for Illya to speak. When he didn't, Napoleon held out his cup and said, "Here. You look like you could use this." 

Illya shook his head, looking slightly nauseated. "Thank you, no. Perhaps later, when my stomach stops feeling like acrobats are performing backflips in it." 

Napoleon nodded and set the cup aside. Taking a sip from his own, he walked past Illya into the living room. Illya followed, settling tentatively on the other end of the sofa.

"I couldn't do it, you know," Illya said at last, breaking the awkward silence that had begun to stretch between them. 

Napoleon, who had been staring blankly into his coffee cup, looked up at him. "Couldn't do what?" he asked. 

"Couldn't pull the trigger. Couldn't kill myself." 

"Because you were too drunk?" 

Illya shook his head. "No," he said. "That came later. After I tried to pull the trigger and couldn't. After I realized what a coward I am." He sighed. "I was ashamed. I suppose I thought the Vodka might give me the courage to finish what I had started. Obviously it did not." 

"I'm glad," Napoleon said in a whisper. 

"Are you?" Illya's expression was unreadable. "Are you really?" 

Napoleon looked at him in amazement. "How can you ask that? Do you have any idea how I felt when I saw you there with your gun in your hand? I thought you were _dead_ , for God's sake! Can you imagine how I felt, how I still feel knowing that you didn't come to me for help before things got that bad for you? That you didn't trust me enough to come to me?" 

"It wasn't like that," Illya said. "You don't understand." 

"Don't I? Then explain it to me, Illya. Make me understand." 

"I can't!" Illya shouted. He jumped up and began to pace back and forth, his hands clenching and unclenching. Napoleon remained silent, waiting for Illya's emotions to cool. After a few more moments, Illya slumped and sat back down. "I can't," he repeated more calmly, as if there had been no break in their conversation. 

"Well," Napoleon said matter-of-factly, "so much for the friend part. What about the other?"

"I beg your pardon?" 

"What about the partnership? If you don't think enough of me as a friend to let me help you, I suppose you can't think much of me as a partner either. Of course, if you still plan on killing yourself the first chance you get, it's a moot point. Either way I'll have to find a new partner. One I can trust to be there when I need him. Like I used to trust you. Like I thought you trusted me." 

Illya ran his fingers through his still damp hair. "Don't do this, Napoleon. I'm too tired to play games tonight." 

"Goddamn it!" Napoleon exploded. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Playing a game? Trying to manipulate you into telling me something you don't want me to know?" He took a deep breath and then shook his head ruefully. "Well, maybe I am." He reached out and laid a hand on Illya's arm, holding on tightly when the Russian tensed and tried to pull away. "Please," Napoleon said, "don't go." Illya stayed where he was, though he didn't relax.

Napoleon smiled at this small victory, wishing he could feel Illya's skin against his hand instead of the bulky sweater. _That's why he chose it_ , Napoleon realized with sudden conviction. _It's the nearest thing to armor he has, the thickest physical barrier he could find to place between us. Did he choose it unconsciously, or was it deliberate? Maybe he feels it's necessary to protect himself from me. Or maybe it's just his secret, the cancer that's eating away at him, that he wants to protect._ Suddenly the sweater became a symbol of the wall that Illya had erected between the two of them, and Napoleon, never afraid of heights, wanted very much to scale that wall and find out what lay on the other side. 

"Napoleon?" Illya asked, bringing the other man back to reality. "What are you thinking?" 

Napoleon's lips quirked. The irony of the fact that his erotic awareness of Illya had arisen now, when he dared not admit to or act on it, had not escaped his notice. "Believe me, my friend," he said, "you really don't want to know." No trace of humor remained in his voice a moment later when he asked quietly, dreading the answer, "What now, Illya? Do you still want to kill yourself? Do you plan to try again?" Illya's gaze shifted away. "I guess that answers my question," he said bleakly. "That's it, then. You've only left me one other option since you won't talk to me." 

"Napoleon, no." Illya stiffened under Napoleon's hand, making him want to enfold him in his arms as he had that morning. Instead, Napoleon steeled himself and said, "I have no choice, and you know it. I’ve got to take you in for psych evaluation and treatment. Regulations—" 

"Regulations be damned!" Illya pulled his arm free from Napoleon's grasp and jumped up, backing toward the kitchen. "They'll use hypnosis on me, drugs." His voice was a horrified whisper. "Please, Napoleon, don't let them do that to me. I couldn't bear it. I'd rather be dead." 

Illya looked around frantically, his usually cool blue eyes dilated almost to black. He reminded Napoleon of an injured animal that was prepared to gnaw off its own foot rather than remain in a hunter's trap, and he abruptly thought of the variety of sharp and deadly objects lying just out of reach in the kitchen. 

"All right," he said soothingly, desperate to distract Illya, to calm him. "I won't turn you in to Psych, at least not yet. But you have to do something for me in return." He waited for his words to sink in, then, when Illya's agitation had diminished somewhat, pressed his advantage. "You have to promise that you'll let me stay here with you for the next few days, and that you'll talk to me. But most of all, you have to promise that you won't try to kill yourself again during that time." 

"Talk to you about what?" Illya asked suspiciously. 

Napoleon shrugged. "This and that. Whatever. Just talk." 

After a moment's consideration, Illya said doubtfully, "There's not room here for two people. The sofa's too small, and it doesn't open into a bed." 

Napoleon suppressed a smile at the return of Illya's usual practicality. _This is going to work_ , he thought with relief. _If I can just stay near him, be with him, eventually he'll tell me what the problem is and let me help him solve it._

"It doesn't matter." He caught Illya's glance and held it. "We'll beat this, Illya. Just wait and see. Together we can beat anything." 

After a moment, Illya gave in. "Yes, then. I agree. But you must promise me something as well." He waited for Napoleon's slow nod. "Whatever happens during your stay here, you must promise not to interfere with what I decide to do afterwards." 

Napoleon gaped at him. "How can I agree to that? If you decide you still want to kill yourself, it will be my fault!" 

"No," Illya said firmly. "It will be _my_ decision. My responsibility. It is my life, Napoleon. I have the right to choose what I will do with it." 

_But not the right to throw it away!_ Napoleon argued silently. _Still, if I don't grant him this, what chance will I have of being able to help him?_ The answer was clear: no chance at all. "Agreed, then," he said reluctantly. He prayed, as he hadn't prayed in more years than he could remember, that he was doing the right thing. He held out his hand, and Illya grasped it.

 

Despite his misgivings in doing so, Napoleon left Illya alone while he went to his own apartment to get clothing and toiletries for the next few days. _He promised,_ Napoleon reminded himself as he quickly threw some things into a small suitcase. _He'll be fine. He's never lied to me. He'll keep his word._

 _Hurry. Hurry._ Napoleon repeated the words over and over like a litany that kept pace with the racing of his heart. All the while he felt a sick fear unlike anything he had ever felt when they were in the field. Why was this so different? Illya had been in danger before. There had even been times he feared his partner was dead. So why did he feel this way now? 

_Because now I know I love him, have loved him for a long time_ , he answered himself. _Because although there have been times in the past when I've been afraid for him, this is the first time I've ever been afraid _of_ him, afraid of the emptiness, the darkness in his eyes. Afraid because he's given up and written himself off. Afraid because I'm the last chance he has, and if I fuck up he loses everything. We both lose everything. _

_Hurry. Hurry._

 

Napoleon made it back to Illya's apartment in record time. He paused in the hallway outside the apartment to steady himself and then knocked sharply. 

"Just a minute. I'm coming," Illya called in answer, his lightly accented voice muffled by the closed door. Relief swept over Napoleon, threatening to buckle his knees. A few seconds later he heard the bolt slide back, and Illya stood in front of him, frowning. "We made a deal, Napoleon," he said evenly. "I won't be the one to break it." 

"I know," Napoleon answered, wondering what Illya saw in his face that had prompted that remark. "Can I come in?" 

Illya shrugged. "That, too, is part of the deal, is it not? Besides, if I leave you standing out here the neighbors will talk, and I already have a bad enough reputation in this building as it is." 

"Yes? And why is that?"

"Because they think I'm a Russian spy, of course," Illya answered, his drawn face not reflecting the irony of his words as he stepped aside to let Napoleon in. 

Napoleon stepped past him and stood uncertainly just inside the threshold while Illya re-engaged the locks and activated the alarm system. "You didn't do that last night," Napoleon observed, though he immediately regretted it when he saw Illya grimace. 

"No," the Russian answered honestly. "What for? I didn't have anything left to protect, and I didn't want you to have to break down the door to get in." 

"How did you know it would be me who came to find you?" 

Another shrug. "No one else would care enough to come looking." 

"That's not true! Mr. Waverly is concerned about you as well. He sent me here." 

"It's his job," Illya said. "He would do anything he felt would benefit U.N.C.L.E. No more, no less." 

"I think you underestimate him, and yourself. He was worried about you. _You_ , not U.N.C.L.E." 

"Perhaps," Illya said without conviction.

"This bag is getting heavy," Napoleon said to change the subject. "Can I put my things away before we continue this discussion?" 

"Of course," Illya said. "I'm afraid I make a poor host; I'm not used to having company." 

"No?" Napoleon asked. "Not even women?" 

Illya reddened slightly and turned toward the bedroom. "No," he answered. "Not even women. Come on," he continued over his shoulder, "I've emptied a drawer in the dresser, and there is ample room in the closet. After you've unpacked we can have dinner."

Napoleon's brow furrowed at Illya's response to his last words, but he didn't pursue the subject. "Shit!" he said instead. "I should have stopped to pick something up on my way back here." 

"No need. I have some borscht in the refrigerator." He pointed to an open dresser drawer. "That one is yours. I've also made space in the bathroom. Do you need help unpacking?" 

Napoleon shook his head. "I didn't bring much." 

"No, I suppose not. After all, you won't be here long, will you?" 

_Long enough_ , Napoleon prayed. _Please God, let it be long enough._

"I'll heat up the borscht." 

Illya left the room as Napoleon opened his suitcase. When he had put away his clothes and toiletries, Napoleon sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. His earlier optimism had vanished in the face of Illya's fatalistic calm, and he was once again very afraid for him. "This is going to be harder than I thought," he muttered. “Oh, Illya. How am I going to get through to you?"

 

Dinner was a quiet affair. Illya played with his soup, endlessly stirring it while listlessly watching the tiny whirlpools and eddies the spoon left in its wake. Napoleon did little better, eating mechanically, barely tasting each spoonful as he scooped up the next one. After a while the oppressive quiet got to him, and he said, more because he wanted to hear Illya's voice than for any other reason, "This is very good. Did you make it yourself?" 

Illya's restless stirring stopped, and he frowned down at his bowl. "No," he said after a pause, as if he had to translate the question before he could answer it. "I got it from a little Russian restaurant down the street." Napoleon could almost see him searching his memory for a socially correct comment. "I'm glad you like it," Illya came up with at last. "Would you like some more?" 

"No. What I would like is for you to stop trying to act like a proper host and eat something yourself." He tapped Illya's bowl encouragingly with his spoon.

Illya looked at the borscht doubtfully, then obediently conveyed a spoonful to his mouth and swallowed. A moment later, his eyes widened and a faint sheen of sweat broke out on his face. "I think that was a mistake," he said. He pushed back from the table, knocking his chair over in his haste, and staggered toward the bathroom with Napoleon following. Illya dropped to his knees in front of the toilet bowel, his body bent double with the force of his spasms, and threw up what little was in his stomach. When he started to dry heave, Napoleon knelt down and slipped a supportive arm around his chest. His spasms finally easing, Illya slumped back exhaustedly against him. "I'm sorry. I usually handle my Vodka much better than this." 

"Hush," Napoleon murmured, gently petting Illya's soft hair to soothe him. "It doesn't matter." He clasped Illya closer, but when he stiffened Napoleon immediately released his hold and drew back. "Can you get up?" he asked. 

Illya nodded and, with an effort, stood up. He shivered as the draft from his movement cooled the sweat that had soaked his clothing. "You'd better get out of those wet things," Napoleon said. "Where do you keep your pajamas?" 

"In the top left hand drawer of the dresser," Illya muttered through clenched teeth. He shut his eyes and swallowed convulsively, obviously trying to fight down another attack of nausea. When it had passed, he looked at Napoleon out of shame-filled eyes. "I didn't mean for you to have to babysit me this way," he apologized. "I must seem very pathetic to you." 

Before Napoleon could respond, Illya leaned over the sink and turned on the tap, splashing his face with cold water. When he raised his eyes and caught sight of his image in the mirror, the look of self-loathing he gave himself made Napoleon wince. "Things will get better," he offered and was instantly aware of the banality of his words. 

"Will they?" Illya turned to face him, water dripping off his high cheek bones like tears. "I wish I could believe that." 

Napoleon, fresh out of reassuring clichés, met Illya's gaze for a moment before turning reluctantly away. He went out to the dresser and, opening the drawer Illya had indicated, saw a pair of worn flannel pajamas. As he reached for them, however, a flash of color at the back of the drawer caught his eyes. Curious, he pulled out a pair of pale blue silk pajamas. He ran an admiring hand over the soft, cool material, vaguely surprised and pleased that Illya owned such a fine article of clothing. _No more symbolic armor between us tonight, my friend_ , he thought, closing the drawer. _These suit you far better._

Returning to the bathroom, Napoleon found Illya brushing his teeth. Finishing up, he turned and hardly seemed to notice as Napoleon helped him shrug out of his damp sweater. _Not exactly how I had pictured undressing you,_ Napoleon thought as he admired the finely toned musculature of Illya's chest. It took a firm effort of will not to reach out and touch as he helped him into the pajama shirt and deftly buttoned it. Illya remained compliantly still during the procedure and didn't seem to notice when Napoleon had finished. "Your pants," Napoleon encouraged at last, trying to keep his tone businesslike. 

Illya flushed and modestly turned his back toward Napoleon, fumbling clumsily with his zipper. His pants dropped around his ankles and he kicked them aside, quickly pulling on the pajama bottoms. 

"You look good in those,“ Napoleon said softly. "The color matches your eyes." 

This time Illya blushed bright crimson and dropped his gaze to the pale blue fabric as if he hadn't noticed it before. "They were a present," he mumbled. "I never wear them. They’re too..." he searched for the proper word. 

"Decadent?" Napoleon provided helpfully. "Bourgeois?"

Illya almost smiled at Napoleon's teasing tone. "Impractical," he corrected and yawned. 

"Come on," Napoleon encouraged. "Let's get you to bed. You look like you're about to drop."

"Yes," Illya agreed, following him. "I don't know why I'm so tired after sleeping all day." 

"After how many sleepless nights, though?" 

"I've lost track." Illya lay down, his eyes immediately drifting shut. 

Napoleon pulled the covers over him, resisting the urge to brush the disheveled mass of hair back off his high forehead. "Good night," he said. 

“Good night," Illya answered, his voice already slurring into sleep. 

Napoleon reached over and grabbed the extra pillow off the bed. He hugged it tightly to himself as he made his way into the living room and dropped onto the sofa. He still didn't want to leave Illya alone, but he knew that the Russian would resent it if he hovered over him like a mother hen. Throwing the pillow against the arm of the sofa, he punched it vigorously before stretching out as much as was possible in the cramped space. Despite his discomfort and his concern for Illya, he was asleep within minutes.

 

Napoleon's dreams wound around in jumbled circles, weaving themselves into tighter and tighter patterns of frustration and urgency. In them he chased endlessly after a sphere of silver-gold light, the only illumination in an otherwise empty black void. He had to catch up to the light; he could not let it escape. If he did, he would be relegated to endless darkness. 

He felt his heart racing faster and faster, threatening to burst from his chest in its agitation. His breaths came in great gasps, but no oxygen seemed to be reaching his straining muscles. Another moment and he knew he would go down, and his quarry would elude him. He gathered the last of the air in his burning lungs and forced it back out through his lips in a wild, desperate shout: "Illya!" 

"Napoleon! Wake up!" 

Illya's worried voice cut through Napoleon's sleep-drugged stupor, and he was instantly awake. "What?" he asked, his hand automatically reaching for his Walther, his eyes searching for some hidden enemy.

Illya's hand on his wrist stilled his movement. "It's all right, Napoleon. There is no danger." Illya's voice was soft, and his eyes once again held the warmth that Napoleon cherished, the warmth that his friend saved just for him, the warmth that had been missing from them all of the previous day. "Are you all right?" Illya asked, releasing his hold. 

Suppressing a sigh at the loss of physical contact, Napoleon sat up, wincing as his cramped muscles rebelled against the effort. He rubbed at his face with both hands and was surprised to find them come away moist. "Yes," he said uncertainly. "I'm fine." 

"After all your years as a spy," Illya said, "I would have thought you'd be a better liar by now." He continued to watch Napoleon closely, worry etching a furrow between his eyes. 

"Really, Illya, I'm all right. It was just a nightmare. Must have been the borscht." His gaze flickered away. He was afraid that Illya would see too much in his eyes, read the fear and desire that even now tightened his stomach, pulling him toward Illya despite all of his best intentions, all of his resistance. 

Illya continued to watch him, his expression now more puzzled than worried. Eventually he said, "This is ridiculous. You're too tall for the sofa. You can't sleep here; you must take the bed." 

Napoleon shook his head. "No. Absolutely out of the question. This is your home, not mine. I'm the intruder here, and I won't throw you out of your own bed." 

Illya nodded as if he had expected no other answer. "We can share it, then," he offered hesitantly.

Stunned at the suggestion, Napoleon opened his mouth to protest then closed it again. Why not? He wanted to be close to Illya, to keep him safe from harm. If he was willing to share his bed, however platonically, then surely Napoleon should be able to agree to his suggestion gracefully. After all, he was a grown man, Illya's closest friend, not some randy pervert incapable of controlling his baser instincts for one night, or even for several. His mind made up, Napoleon nodded. "Sounds good," he said. "My back feels like it's spent the last couple of hours in one of Del Floria's suit presses." 

"Speaking of suits," Illya said, "don't you think you should take yours off?" 

Napoleon glanced down at himself, realizing for the first time that he was still fully dressed. "Oops," he said sheepishly. "I must have had other things on my mind. By the way," he added, looking at Illya appraisingly, "how do you feel?" 

"Only slightly the worse for wear," Illya answered. "Still very tired."

"And my nightmare woke you out of a sound sleep," Napoleon said regretfully.

"No matter. The way I feel right now, I'll be asleep again the minute my head hits the pillow." 

Napoleon stifled a yawn. "Me too. I guess we should go to bed, then." Despite his words and his earlier assurances to himself, however, Napoleon stayed put. 

As if sensing his friend's hesitancy, Illya stood and offered him a hand up. Napoleon took it and they went to the bedroom. Illya got in bed first, scooting over to the side nearest the wall, turning his back as Napoleon undressed and put on his pajamas. When he got into bed behind him, Illya murmured, "Good night, Napoleon." Almost immediately his breathing settled into the regular rhythm of deep sleep.

"Good night, tovarich," Napoleon whispered then he, too, fell into a deep and untroubled sleep.

 

_Napoleon took a deep breath, inhaling the clean, earthy odor of freshly mown hay as he lay napping in the grass on the hillside overlooking the farmhouse. Down below, he could almost catch the scent of apple pie wafting up from the kitchen, and any moment he knew he would hear his mother's voice calling them in to lunch._

__

__Not yet, Mamma_ , Napoleon thought lazily. _Don't make us get up just yet_. He wrapped his arms tighter around his companion, snuggling into the delicious warmth that nestled so close against him. God, but he felt wonderful. He couldn't remember the last time he had been so happy. He felt like he could do anything, like he could stretch out his arms and fly if he wanted to. But he wouldn't. He'd rather stay here. Here with..._  


Napoleon was suddenly fully awake, fully aware of where he was and whom he held. Illya lay spooned against him, Napoleon's face pillowed against his hair, cock cradled snugly against his silk covered ass. Despite their intimate contact, however, Napoleon was surprised to realize that he wasn't physically aroused. Rather, he felt a quiet contentment that exceeded anything he had ever felt with anyone else. 

_Is this what love is?_ he wondered. _Not possession, not even passion, but just this quiet sense of belonging, this sublime peace?_ He wanted to hold Illya like this forever, but he knew he couldn't. Illya would never accept his touch if he were awake. Illya had never liked to be touched. Napoleon held on one moment more, one moment to last a lifetime, then carefully began to withdraw. As he did so, however, Illya's hands closed around his own, pressing them firmly against his chest. 

"Illya?"

Illya just held on to him.

"Illya?" Napoleon repeated. It was then that he felt the trembling of the body in his arms. "Oh, Illya," he whispered brokenly. He turned the other man until they were facing each other. Illya buried his face in the hollow of Napoleon's neck, and Napoleon held him tightly, all the while murmuring in his ear, "I'm here. I won't let go of you. I'm here." 

Gradually Illya's tremors subsided and he lay, silent and spent, in Napoleon's embrace. Napoleon could feel his listlessness, his hopelessness, and he knew if he questioned him now, Illya would tell him everything. "Why do you want to die?" he asked quietly. Illya didn't answer. Napoleon shook him gently and repeated, "Why?" 

"I don't want to die," Illya answered at last.

"Then why did you try to kill yourself?" 

"Because I couldn't go on living like this." 

"Like what?" 

Illya pulled away from Napoleon and sat up, his face turned toward the wall. "Alone," he whispered. "Unloved. Pretending to be someone I'm not, something I'm not. Pretending that I don't care. That I don't feel." He turned toward Napoleon, his red-rimmed eyes fervent and full of pain. "I do care, Napoleon," he said. "I do feel. I do... love." 

With his words, everything fell into place, and Napoleon finally understood. Illya had spent years, perhaps the better part of a lifetime, building a wall around himself. A wall to keep himself in and everyone else out. After all, if you don't let anyone close, you can't be hurt. If you don't let anyone close, you can't lose them. If you're already alone, no one can leave you, no one can reject you. 

But no one can live that way, not forever. So eventually Illya had broken his own rules. He had let someone inside the wall. He had let someone come close. He had fallen in love with someone he believed could never love him in return, someone he could never even tell of his love. Illya had fallen in love with his partner, a notorious ladies' man. He had fallen in love with Napoleon Solo. 

Napoleon's heart felt near to breaking with sorrow and guilt for causing Illya pain. _How close I came to losing you because I was too blind to see your need, your love. Too blind to see my own. How can I make it up to you? Will you even let me, or is it already too late for us?_ Either way, he knew he had to try. 

"So," Illya said with brittle calm, "now you know. You can see why I didn't want anyone to find out. Can't you just hear the gossip at Headquarters? _'Did you hear about Kuryakin? Went queer for his partner, Napoleon Solo of all people, and tried to kill himself.'_ God, what a joke. What a stupid, pathetic joke." He rubbed his hands over his face, every movement filled with self-contempt. 

"Are you finished?" Napoleon asked. 

Illya grimaced. "Yes, I would say that just about sums it up, wouldn't you? Oh, and don't worry about my trying another suicide attempt. That was sheer dramatrics on my part. It won't happen again." He fixed Napoleon with a cold glance, as impersonal and disdainful as any with which he had ever favored a THRUSH agent. "So you see, there's really no reason for you to stay any longer. In fact, I'd appreciate it if you would collect your things and leave now."

For a moment Napoleon almost gave up and left, but in the end his own stubbornness as much as his love for Illya stopped him. _No. I won't give you up without a fight, even if I have to fight dirty to make sure we get what we both want_. 

Ignoring the twinge of conscience that begged him not to hurt Illya any more than he already had, Napoleon took a deep breath, wished himself good luck, and clapped his hands three times with exaggerated force. "Bravo," he applauded in a tone even icier than the one Illya had just used on him. "Very well played. You missed your calling; you should have been an actor. Of course, the role you've chosen for yourself doesn't really fit very well. Rather out of character, self-pity, don't you think?" 

"Napoleon," Illya warned. 

"And _my_ role!" Napoleon continued, ignoring Illya's interruption. "Really now, just how am I supposed to play it? Should I be the shocked innocent, the pitying friend, or the enraged heterosexual?" He stopped, a faint sneer curling his lips, and pretended to shudder with revulsion.

"You bastard!" Illya's hands clenched into fists. 

"Make up your mind, Illya," Napoleon said. "Do you want to hit me or fuck me?"

For a split second Napoleon thought Illya would choose the first option, and he tensed instinctively in preparation for the coming blow, knowing that no matter what happened he wouldn't fight back. But the moment passed, and he watched with relief as Illya's defenses dropped and all the fight drained out of him. 

"What do you want me to say?" Illya asked at last, his fingers picking at the bedding. "That I love you? Well, I do. You know I do. Now please," he implored, "if you were ever truly my friend, just go." 

"And if I prefer to stay?" Napoleon asked softly.

"For what purpose? To humiliate me more? It cannot be done. Pride is a luxury I no longer possess. You've seen to that." 

Napoleon reached out and took both of Illya's hands in his own. He turned them over, rubbing the palms gently with his thumbs, and felt Illya shudder. 

"If you'd told me this a year ago, even a month ago," Napoleon began, "I don't know how I would have reacted, what I would have said or done. Maybe I'd have handled it very badly and everything would have been over between us. I just don't know. All I know is how I felt when I saw you yesterday morning and thought for a moment that you were dead. How I felt when I walked in on you in the shower. How I felt when I woke up this morning with you in my arms." A flare of arousal coursed through him at the memory. "I love you. More than I've ever loved anyone before. More than I can imagine I'll ever love anyone again. And it doesn't matter that you're Russian, or my partner, or a man, or anything else that might be a reason for this not to work, for us not to try to make it work." 

"You love me?" Illya murmured as if trying the concept on for size and having difficulty with the fit. 

"Yes." 

"You love me." This time Illya seemed more comfortable with the idea, and he smiled a shy, sensuous smile that was, Napoleon decided, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. 

Napoleon laughed. "Yes," he said again. "I love you." He pulled one of Illya's captive hands toward himself and pressed it firmly against his groin. "And I want you, too." 

Illya drew in a startled breath as he felt Napoleon's burgeoning erection through the soft material separating them. He needed no further encouragement to wrap his fingers around it and apply gentle pressure. 

Napoleon groaned. "Does that mean you've finally made your decision?"

"What decision?" Illya asked distractedly, a rapt expression on his face. 

"About whether you want to fight or... make love," Napoleon said, amending his earlier crude statement to more accurately fit the emotions involved. 

"Oh. The latter." Illya grinned wolfishly. "Most definitely the latter." 

"Then I have your permission to stay?" 

"Yes, Napasha," Illya answered, straining toward the other man and moaning with frustration as Napoleon gripped his shoulders hard, holding him at arms length. 

"And you'll stay with me?" Napoleon asked, demanding Illya's assurance that he would never again deliberately try to leave him. 

"Yes!" Illya promised. "I'll stay." 

Napoleon began to pull him forward, drawing their mouths relentlessly closer and closer until their breaths mingled, but stopping again just short of contact. "Forever?"

"Yes!" Illya repeated desperately. "Forever." He strained forward. "Please, Napasha," he begged. "Please." 

Napoleon happily relented. "I'll hold you to that, lover," he whispered. Then their lips met, and their bargain was sealed.


End file.
